The Minister
by Android Knight 47
Summary: AU. Slytherin Raised HP. At age 23, the charming Mister Potter figures to be the youngest Minister in history. Read as he deals with political intrigue, an arranged marriage and rumors of a dark resurgence.
1. Part I, Chapter I

**Summary: **AU. Slytherin Raised!HP. At age 23, the charming Mister Potter figures to be the youngest Minister in history. Read as he deals with political intrigue, an arranged marriage and rumors of a dark resurgence.  
**Word to the Readers: ** This is my first story after reading much fanfiction over the years. It starts off a bit slow, I'm afraid and from the POVs of various characters. This is because I feel it would be a cop out to just give you a paragraph explaining what has happened unto this point. Instead, I've written 6,000 words from various people who were both important and not so in Canon!Harry's life. Starting with Chapter II, the story will be Harry-centric and will have much more action though it _is_ a politically driven story.

**I**

"Mr. Potter, the youngest candidate for Minister for Magic in history, turned twenty-three today," drifted the rich voice of a Wizarding Wireless reporter.

Mrs. Weasley, who was busying herself in the family kitchen, cast a glare at the device as the man continued - "The ever popular Boy-Who-Lived appeared briefly in the marketing district to cheers of good will before retiring to his estate in Wizarding Edinburgh, where he will enjoy a very small and _very_ private party."

Sources privy to the Opposition Leader's schedule disclosed he will be leaving for London in the morning, in preparation for his grand wedding to the lovely Miss –"

A tap of the wand and the formal voice of the reporter was replaced by Celestina Warbeck's lilting and upbeat tone in 'You've Jinxed Me'.

Mr. Potter this, Mr. Potter that. Mr. Potter did this, Mr. Potter will be doing that. Molly Weasley had had quite enough of the infallible Mr. Potter for one afternoon, perhaps the week.

"Mum!" a surprise voice said.

"Don't 'Mum' me, Ginny Weasley," came the soft tempered reply as Molly floated the dirtied pots, pans and dishes from that day's lunch into the slightly worn sink. She cast a cleaning charm on several of the brushes in the sink and as the instruments began their chore, she cast a glance out the window near the old fashioned oven.

All her children had visited, a rarity with them being grown up and out of the house, and all save her very stubborn daughter had gone out to play Quidditch in the yard.

"You know they won't be here for long, dear," she said in an almost pleading voice, "Charlie leaves in the morning and Bill the next day and you won't find an afternoon more wonderful than this." It was then that she cast another charm that rinsed the soap off before adding, "You really ought to go outside and join them instead of listening to pointless gossip you can pick up on any day of the week."

That did it.

The pretty daughter to whom she'd spoken to look scandalized. "_Pointless?_" the girl reiterated; "Any day of the week?" she whispered – "He'll only be married once!"

"Oh dear God, I hope so," the mother practically breathed, dropping her wand in the sink and covering her mouth.

"Mum!"

"What?" she recovered, "What's wrong with hoping they live happily ever after?"

"Who wants them to live happily after?" she questioned, an amused look on her face. "That's no fun – they _have_ to be miserable."

"Well, look at the kind of daughter I've raised," Molly said, turning to look at her youngest, a twenty-two year old, slightly shorter than average woman with not a care in the world. She sat in a rickety swivel chair, rolling back and forth, humming to the tune that poured out of the wireless.

Noticing she had her mother's attention, the girl pouted and Molly gave in – "Well, it is an arranged marriage."

Ginny grinned and flicked her wand, changing the channel.

It was outside, seated at a bench that stood in the shade of an ancient tree that had seen many Weasleys come and go that Arthur Weasley and Cyrano Lovegood heard a very exasperated "Ginny!" pour from an open window near them.

Arthur, a man in his fifties with quickly disappearing hair, laughed and said "No doubt they must be discussing Mr. Potter again; you know how smitten Ginny is."

It was Lovegood who chuckled next, newspaper in hand. He scanned the front page which held a large picture of a stoic looking, young man whose lips moved, showing he was speaking but no words came from the page. Putting the paper down, he spoke.

"It seems everyone is smitten with Mr. Potter these days, Arthur. I wasn't that surprised when I found out even my own daughter seems quite taken with him. Although," and he gave a chuckle, "I must say, she's not that interested in his… political achievements. I don't think she ever cared for anything other than his 'vibrant green eyes which remind me oh-so much of Humdinglers'," he quoted, shaking his head.

Arthur smiled for a moment and then frowned; he voiced his worry. "Still, it's hard to believe the SMRP is going to have enough votes to take control," he bit his lower lip and cast his eyes out over the green fields that stretched in every direction. In the distance, he could see six of his children lobbing a red ball towards a makeshift wooden hoop that leaned slightly to the left. "It's not right, you know," he continued, "It's not a foregone conclusion, either; they could come up a seat short – God knows the center district will be tough – but still, can you imagine the change? I mean… the radical purebloods back in power? They'll undo half a century of hard work."

"So you think," said Cyrano, browsing the sports page; the man looked defeated for a second when he stumbled across the footnote that said his team had lost for the fifteenth consecutive time. He looked up and sighed.

"I said it when Potter got into politics; I said it when he got party head, last year. 'The kid's got moxie, he'll go places. He'll be minister one day.' But you never listen to me Arthur," he joked.

Arthur took a look at that man in front of him. He'd like to think Mr. Lovegood wasn't as… well… eccentric as his daughter. But truth was, he hardly knew the man. He was a charmer with a warm sort of personality that much he knew. But his political allegiances? His thoughts on blood supremacy? He had no inkling for he wasn't one to bring religion and politics up often.

But today he dared. "You can't possibly think they'll do good?" he questioned, giving him a pointed looked. "A mess of Slytherins and former Death Eaters running both chambers and you think muggleborns won't suffer?"

"Ah, layoff it Arthur," Cyrano responded, eyeing the article about a murderous goblin – weren't they all murderous, he wondered. He finally looked up to see Arthur's expectant face.

He blinked lazily before giving in to Arthur's question.

"It isn't our fathers' SMRP," he started, "It isn't Grindelwald's SMRP. They've been changing since the early 70s. You-Know-Who comes along and sets them back a couple of decades – what do you think? Things take time. All they've needed is the right person to lead the party. They've found him. A half-blood, mind you."

"A half-blooded Slytherin," Arthur shot in, "Might as well be a pureblooded one. No doubt he pretends it. Hard to believe Lily and James's boy ever ended up in Slytherin though."

Cyrano raised an eyebrow at the man; he knew where this would lead. Arguments. He wasn't for anyone really, but he supported Mr. Potter and the traditions he would uphold in office. Frankly, he didn't want to lose a friend over it however, and so he moved to end the conversation.

"Stranger things have happened, Arthur – I mean, have you ever witnessed the Crumple-Horned Snorkack mate?"

Arthur just gave him a look.

It was many miles to the north, in Hogwarts Castle that Professor McGonagall, a woman just reaching midlife, sat in silence within her office, patiently waiting.

On her desk lay a rather thick tome, opened to a specific page with the header, "Hogwarts Roster, 2003 in the Year of our Lord."

It was a rather important day, she thought, in many ways. It was every year that she sent out owls to the fifty or so magical persons that Hogwarts deemed eligible for learning and it was always July 31st that marked the day when all letters of acceptance must be received.

There were no exceptions.

She bristled at the very thought of someone sending an acceptance on the first of August. Such a move wasn't out of character for the graying lady; it was how she was – punctual, by the book and maybe, maybe if you knew her, _truly_ knew her, you'd get a smile.

It was as another letter of acceptance came in – this one belonging to a Gerhardt Worthington – that her thoughts drifted to the other reason July 31st held such significance.

Harry Potter, of course. Such an interesting child, she thought. In truth, the Professor had grown worried. She'd always been worried, she realized, as she reminisced of all the events the young boy had gotten caught up in. She was never more worried than now however, on the eve of grand sweeping change unparalleled in recent memory.

Had he gotten caught up with the wrong sort? Minerva was a Gryffindor and so of course there were the tendencies to look more at the color of the badge rather than the person who wore it when it came to Slytherin House.

Was he happy? It was as she tried to remember Harry Potter smiling and enjoying something that a voice startled her.

"Lemon drop for your thoughts, Professor McGonagall?"

She let loose a 'hmm' before looking up – Albus Dumbledore stood before her, regal as ever, though there was a frown upon his otherwise kind face. She attempted to regain her composure at once and half-coughed.

"Albus," she declared, bowing her head slightly; the Headmaster of Hogwarts returned the gesture.

"Odd that I should find you, Professor McGonagall, so lost in your thoughts on a day with so much work to be done," he started, his tone very serious. Minerva was at loss for words – was he serious? It was then, still recovering from her trip down memory lane, that she realized just _who_ she was talking to.

When had Albus Dumbledore been serious?

She caught the laughter his eyes held and the corners of his lips which fought hard not to belie his true feelings; she smiled a genuine smile at him. Albus chuckled a moment later, his ruse disappearing behind a gentle smile.

His visage swept the entirety of her office, taking in all the wonderful Myrddinian Era paintings, the soft pitter-patter of the teapot and the mahogany _everything_. Satisfied, he tented his fingers before sitting down in the chair before the Deputy Headmistress's desk.

The wizened man took a look at the tome upon her desk, 'hmm'ing before remarking, "It would seem some still have yet to reply. Though… I imagine the owls to your right would have something to say about that," he finished, smiling kindly.

She half-coughed again as she looked to her left, and indeed, there stood several very stern looking owls, each with a letter of acceptance tied carefully around their right foot.

Her nose twitched. "So it would seem."

Albus could only chuckle.

She diligently began transferring information and checking off names and marking them in the tome. "Is there anything the matter, Minerva?" Albus pushed.

"Oh, nothing at all," she lied, realizing in hindsight that it indeed would come off as rather odd behavior for Minerva McGonagall of all people to be lost in the clouds. Realizing she was caught in a lie, she sighed, "If you must know," and here she gave him a look of insecurity, perhaps wondering if her thoughts were wasted and silly, "I was thinking of Mr. Potter."

"Ah-ah," he said, in understanding, withdrawing a sweet from his pocket and devouring it. "Perfectly understandable, Minerva; nothing wrong in that," he continued, his sweet tooth sated, "In fact, I sincerely doubt there is a wizard or witch alive today who hasn't thought about Mr. Potter every July and October 31st of every year since that dreadful night so long ago. We owe so much, after all."

He glanced at Minerva, who was listening intently, "Even more so has it become important to think of Mr. Potter, as he has positioned himself for Minister for Magic. It would be prudent for you to think of him; it is your civic duty to, after all."

Minerva only shook her head, smiling.

"Laugh if you want, Minerva. It falls upon every witch and wizard in this country to vote once government is dissolved and general elections are held. Far be it for someone to spend some time _thinking_ about the person instead of voting along party lines as has become custom with your average wizard," he lamented.

"So you think of him then?" she inquired.

Here Dumbledore looked pained for a moment before exhaling a somewhat shaky breath. He took his glasses off, tapped him with his wand and replaced them. "Only on days when the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, Minerva," he finally said.

Minerva's eyebrows raised in confusion and seeing this he continued, "There wasn't a day that went by after I placed him at the Dursleys' in which I didn't contemplate my actions. Was I too brash, I often wondered. Had I cut someone off from a world that was rightfully his? Was I setting him up to hate me?"

He tented his fingers once more. "Hundreds of questions, Minerva. All plagued me until a small, undersized boy with green eyes entered our world."

He sniffed, "Something happened in those opening days, Minerva, in which he prepared for his first year of Hogwarts," he revealed, going farther than Minerva expected him to, "Something I did not intend. I must admit, now on the cusp of perhaps the most radical change in government in forty years, that I had intended young Harry to be as normal as one could be under such conditions as were his."

Alas it was not to be. Something happened. He was not as excited as I anticipated he would be; not as friendly nor as open to people as I predicted," and his eyes seem to lose focus as he recalled a particular shaky day from young Potter's childhood. "And when he sat upon that stool, for the first time in my life, I did not _know_."

It only made Minerva more curious as she leaned forward, paying close attention to every detail.

"I did not know who this child was who sat before a crowd eager to make their problems his. I did not know who he would become or whether he would make the decisions that seemed so right to make when I placed him upon that footstep so long ago."

"_Better be... SLYTHERIN!"_ The voice of the sorting hat echoed so clearly in his mind.

"And it was as he was sorted into Slytherin," he continued "And it was as the tables all sat in confusion for the briefest of moments, they too _not knowing_, that I realized what that unexpected something was."

Minerva waited, hands on desk, breath drawn – "It was me, Minerva," he clarified. She deflated; it was not the answer she was expecting – perhaps something evil but before she could think further on it, he pressed on, "Albus Dumbledore, who sat as Headmaster of Hogwarts, guilty of perhaps nothing… and then again, guilty of perhaps everything."

You see, Minerva – it was I who had held all the cards up until that very moment. It was I who had positioned myself to become the most important person in young Harry's life. And what was so unexpected?" he questioned himself, sighing, "What was so unexpected was realizing in that moment how wrong I could be; how wrong my actions could be. It was not in that moment, however, that I understood that I had failed someone so terribly, so incontrovertibly."

He sighed, rubbing his hands along the mahogany desk of his protégé. "I had known nothing; I had understood little about this child and had gambled everything. I had played a game with someone else's life. And my opponent, Minerva – oh ho, my opponent, whoever he may be, has been making me pay ever since," he concluded, looking away from Minerva's torn face.

"So you gave up?" she asked, hesitantly. Dumbledore, who was staring out the window at the setting sun, ignored her for a moment before telling her that was not the case.

"Oh no, I did not give up easily on Mr. Potter. It's as I said – it was not in that moment that I realized I had lost whatever war I was waging. It came much later. It was in his early years that I believed it would be essential for him to not tread a path resembling that of another student's, who came before him, long before him – one you may know very well, Minerva," seeing no sign of understanding, he decided that was a story for another day, "For another time, Minerva."

You must understand how hard it is to not know, Minerva," he continued, almost in sorrow, "To not know when all you've done is know is a feeling I was not ready to accept. And instead of reevaluating my thoughts, slowing down… and perhaps making a wiser judgment, I went recklessly into Mr. Potter's life, though I doubt he knew it. He may still not."

Minerva's interest was piqued again as she nibbled on a biscuit taken from one of her drawers. "I tried so very hard to court him through desperate means… means far from legal, Minerva – far from," he revealed, making Minerva stop chewing, "I lost him completely, despite those efforts."

Albus slouched in the chair and tilted his head to one side, his face taking on a look of pride, though where he directed it, Minerva did not know until he spoke again. "He was such a good student," he offered, smiling, "I don't think he ever received less than Outstanding, did he?"

"No Albus, he didn't," Minerva agreed, a bit impatient with Dumbledore's detour, but not unsympathetic, "But what is it that happened, Albus – what is it that could make it so impossible for you to reconnect with Harry at a later time?"

Dumbledore's face darkened, a sight Minerva was not accustomed to and as such, she leaned back, allowing him room.

"Lucius Malfoy," he finally stated and Minerva went 'ahh', "I should've seen the signs, really. Perhaps it was even him who changed Mr. Potter upon his entrance into our world; one can never be too sure with Hagrid doing the reporting," he said, smiling, "It was a foolish thing to do, sending Hagrid. But it was an even more foolish thought on my part that blinded me – to think that just because Harry had defeated Lord Malfoy's master he would steer clear from such a boy. Oh no, I should've foreseen that but I was too busy being so directly concerned for him that I missed even the obvious."

Dumbledore stared beyond Minerva as he thought of what one Arabella Figg told him – that Mr. Potter had not been treated kindly at the Dursley home; that he had in fact been party to mistreatment not worthy of the most spoiled of children.

He licked his lips, "Lucius courted Harry, took him under his wing and as I suspect, during the summer months tutored him," Dumbledore revealed, "It was all legal, a first I'm sure, for Mr. Malfoy." This drew a smile from Minerva, "He got permission from the Dursleys, the snake charmer. No doubt that was the easiest part. And then he got permission from Harry, which to this day makes me curious."

"Curious as to what?," she asked, concerned, "Do you think he coerced Mr. Potter unwillingly?"

"At first perhaps," he said, shrugging, "One cannot be too sure, then again Harry may have gone willing, even despite his apparent disdain for the man's child."

Minerva chuckled. "Ah yes," she interjected, "Mr. Potter was never too fond of young Master Malfoy, was he?"

Dumbledore smiled as well, "No, Minerva – I don't think it would matter a great deal what house Mr. Potter found himself in. Some people just don't like arrogance and young Malfoy's brand was particularly lacking in subtlety, wasn't it?"

Minerva nodded, prompting Dumbledore to continue, "You may wonder as to how I got such information – it was all done in secret you see. Well within the law. It would be from an abused House-Elf, one Dobby, who Mr. Potter grew fond of, that I learned what it was Lucius was teaching Harry."

"Politics."

"Spot on. Politics and tradition. Lucius Malfoy was feeding a knowledge-deprived child who starved for some inkling of understanding of the world around him, all he could possibly eat."

Dumbledore sighed. "An already brilliant student in his non-elective years, Mr. Potter easily took top honors in each class and subject starting in third year, much to the chagrin of one Hermione Granger, if I recall correctly."

Minerva smiled, thinking of her favorite student, "Yes, she was rather miffed by it all. Didn't play too well when it came to arguments between the houses. Blood superiority in all," she finished, bitterly.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, "He surprised us all, didn't he?" he asked to no one in particular, "And his affinity for charms… it was not expected. Another errant thought on my part; to think he'd do better in Defense Against the Dark Arts just because he stopped a curse with his mother's love. It was in some of my wilder thoughts that I imagined Mr. Potter perhaps breaking the curse that has been upon the teaching position ever since Lord Voldemort visited."

"He's a Master in Charms, no?" she asked, not sure. Apprenticeships happened after Hogwarts, after all and the newspapers rarely talked of anything other than his political ambitions… well, and his dashing smile. She smiled for a moment before Dumbledore answered.

"Yes. And a Lord Chronicler of History," Dumbledore added. It was a prestigious position. One didn't Master in History, they were instead invited into a prestigious organization ordained by the monarch centuries ago to keep history and keep it well. "He was really an enigma in his years, no doubt, though he was more controlled in that regard, no doubt due to the respect he had for Lord Malfoy and his teachings. When he spoke, people listened, even if the badge upon his heart was green."

"Unheard of," commented the Transfiguration Professor, dryly.

"I was frantic in those days, Minerva," he stated, looking at her with saddened eyes, "I began revisiting my pensieve almost nightly, searching into the past, trying to see if he was going down the path… if he was becoming something this world never needs to see again."

I did not. Again, I who has made a habit of knowing everything, did not know if the savior of our world was becoming dark."

Such an admission shocked Minerva, though she fought hard not to show it. Albus Dumbledore was the strongest man in society in almost every one's book, light or dark, traditionalist or progressive, pureblood or not.

"I was frightened I had lost Lily and James's child, when I had made an oath to protect him; frightened I had failed; frightened that I was perhaps wrong."

He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. He reopened them, looking up, "It came as no surprise, for a change, that when he finished his apprenticeship in charms that he joined the Sorcerers' Magical Reform Party. Almost all Slytherins do, regardless," he clarified, "But maybe I held out hope. No such luck."

He was charismatic; intelligent – he could speak eloquently about anything and he has never once lost his nerve like Lucius is accustomed to. He is everything the SMRP needs and he easily won a seat at the age of eighteen," he said, coughing slightly. Age, he thought. Time was catching up with him.

He remained silent for quite sometime and it was as the ebbing of orange and purple faded into night that Minerva voiced a question she had held for quite some time.

"He renounced his seat in the Chamber of Lords – why?"

He smiled. "Now that _did_ surprise me, Minerva. Although, in hindsight, it was perhaps the most brilliant political move in several hundred years of rather stale government."

The SMRP has been changing, Minerva," he conceded, although it was not without much reluctance on his part, "They are not _as_ bad as they once were though one would always be looking up if your party was anything like Lord Grindelwald's was in the late 30s and early 40s. They've been moving closer to the center while retaining much of their tradition. They've admitted Half-Bloods into the fold, obviously, but it goes deeper than that."

They needed someone that would resonate with the people. Mr. Potter was positively brilliant. To renounce Lordship and to totally remove the Potter name from the upper house? I don't know if I envisioned such a thing, even in the days when I thought Harry would be sorted into Gryffindor."

When James did it, it sent quite the ripple through Pureblood society – not many, however, who don't take the upper house seriously," and both smirked at that, "cared, for lack of a better word."

But when Harry Potter, by the Laws of Lordship renounced his claim to the seat citing wishes to 'run as a citizen normally would'," and Dumbledore shook his head, "Oh ho, I don't think I've ever seen someone so loved by the press nor the people in all my years of living, Muggle or Magical."

Minerva nodded and added, "It was then you could see the writing on the wall."

"Yes," Dumbledore added, dryly, "The party which had issued the Dirty Blood Edicts nearly a century ago, forbidding those of 'inferior blood' from voting and partaking in government – the very party which has persecuted half-breeds and half-bloods and countless others who did not fit their bigoted and misguided views and who have prevented said people from ever holding a significant job in our world for hundreds of years… elected _the_ quintessential half-blood in a landslide vote to party head."

Dumbledore shook his head once more, still unbelieving a year later, "Some days it just pays not to get out of bed, Minerva." The Professor's eyebrows shot up; Dumbledore could only chuckle, "They've been mainstreaming for quite sometime but it's not enough, my friend. Their views of Muggleborns and half-breeds and creatures is far from adequate."

I really don't see how he'll get elected. I don't see the Center District yielding that many seats to their party. Alas... it's not a very favorable hypothesis at the moment as everyone else seems to think it's set in stone - maybe they see something I do not."

"And if he wins?" asked Minerva.

"If he wins," Dumbledore answered, "If he wins, we will see a return of tradition. Something not inherently bad, although a bit costly if I do say so myself. But we also see the push for rights for werewolves, centaurs, goblins and house-elves stop completely, and in some cases, reversing. I doubt it will come to taking rights away though. They wish to retain the lower house and they wouldn't do it in that manner."

Dumbledore had gotten progressively more depressed as the conversation turned more political; Minerva looked to change focus as he seemed not destined to leave the office any time soon, "Speaking of tradition," she ventured, "This girl he's marrying – an… an arranged marriage? No one seems to find it a bit distasteful, Albus. It's all very confusing – wasn't it just a few years ago that the press was all over young Master Malfoy's arrangement?"

Dumbledore tutted, "Yes, well, that was _Malfoy_; this is the Boy-Who-Lived, you see," – seeing Minerva's face, he coughed and got serious, "Yes, well, an arranged marriage would receive scorn in 1998 but the world works in pendulum swings, Minerva. From Medieval to Renaissance to Victorian and so forth; attitudes change when people tire of the same thing for so long. Which is why the SMRP is poised to win – it's a new era in the making; a return of tradition, a return of being more careful with your galleons and of gentlemen and ladies and all the pomp that goes with it. I still wonder if people are not the least bit crazy to be handing the keys over to a party that Voldemort could have easily led had he been a bit more patient."

Lucius Malfoy perhaps saw this," Dumbledore continued, "And upon Harry's 16th birthday struck a deal with her family in secret, to be revealed upon the turn of the century. I hear the money exchanged and the political alliances formed from that single contract were tremendous. Then again, the family has always bred beautiful women; I doubt it wasn't unexpected. It's even from my understanding that Mr. Potter gained a speechwriter that day."

"Mr. Diggory? Really?" asked Minerva; Dumbledore nodded. The things you learn, she thought.

"Regardless, it was a smart move," he said, "I have no doubt Lord Malfoy was testing the waters with his son's arranged marriage. But perhaps Mr. Potter loves this girl now. They've had a long time to court – it would be a good thing, from what I hear of her. She is a very nice girl, or so my sources confide in me."

"Yes, yes she is, from what I recall of her," she concluded, remembering the girl, "Though I cannot seem to recall them ever dating during Hogwarts."

"Mr. Potter never dated anyone," Dumbledore corrected, "And unless he's devised a way to fool me, he never took any lovers either." Minerva didn't want to even know. "Outside of Hogwarts, it's a bit harder to track but the same sources say his only love is politics and the occasional card game."

"He's a very dignified boy, Albus," Minerva stated, "I was very worried for him; I still a bit am, no doubt. It's hard seeing Lily and James in every feature of his." She thought of the handsome face that adorned many a poster and news article in her world, "And seeing the exact opposite in almost everything he does. It's difficult with the attachment to the old Order."

"As I said, Minerva: not a day…," he looked very defeated then, lost amid his own thoughts and perhaps what he perceived as past failings. "He is a very good boy."

Minerva smiled at him, looking down at the tome once more. "A full roster, Albus. All of them have accepted."

Dumbledore shared a smile as well.

---

"An opinion poll last week put Minister Fudge's approval rating at twenty-four percent, which ties him with the late You-Know-Who's and puts both exactly two points behind Magical AIDs in terms of popularity."

Blaise Giovanna Zabini bit the bottom of her lip, smiling, attempting to control her laughter; her body quavered slightly, however, which prompted a response from her father.

"Hold _still_, woman," said the disgruntled voice. The man was very tall, even despite being kneeled at the woman's side and his hair was a light brown intermixed with various shades of gray. He looked to be in his late fifties, though truly, he was nearly a hundred.

"Of course, father," came the daughter's reply, though it was put to the test with lack of success a moment later when the man on the wireless cracked yet another joke.

"Do you want this dress to look good?" he snapped, using his wand to draw fabric from a basket at his feet. Slowly and with precision he weaved it into the half-complete white dress the daughter wore. She moved again; he sighed and said: "Or would you rather it look like a mess so the vultures in the press have something to talk about?" and he grumbled – "God knows they have nothing better to report on than you or that damn boy."

"But I thought you liked Harry," she said, amused.

"Don't be stupid. Of course I like Harry," he spoke quickly, making figure eights with his wand, pulling the fabric together and strengthening the area around the tip as if the wand were starching it.

Truth be told, Mr. Zabini was a master tailor well renowned throughout the Wizarding World for his masterpieces; that didn't mean he could work miracles however and when his daughter moved again he dropped his head into his hands.

"This is your wedding dress, Blaise," he informed her, "You know, the dress you'll be wearing in front of your future husband and countless other lowlifes who have nothing better to do? You are marrying him, are you not?" he snapped, impatiently.

"Oh I don't know father," she replied in an amused tone, "I haven't quite _decided_ yet."

The man only blinked. He threw down his wand and began grumbling; it was at this time that her oldest sister joined in.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, poking her head around the doorway.

"No," the father said, "No it's not. Your sister is terrible. She won't stand still for one god damned minute," it was then that the man on the wireless drew rounds of laughter from the audience as well as Blaise with yet another joke, "And I'm going to personally see to it that that man on that damned show gets hit with a shovel," he finished, pointing his finger in the general direction of the device.

The sister sighed, "Oh Blaise, can't you go a day without that show? It is your wedding dress after all."

"Conspiring against me," the brunette replied, "Always conspiring against me. Fine, fine."

"It's your wedding dress!" her sister exclaimed, "You don't have to get all defensive and scrunch your face up like a skrewt."

"Like a skrewt," Blaise breathed, astonished, "My face is not…" she started, getting defensive; she glanced in the mirror adorned on the east side of the room and then back at the woman she was forced to call sister. "Oh, you're so clever. Well… well, fine," she said lamely, "I'm done for today. No more," she got in, before they could protest, "We'll finish it tomorrow."

She stepped off the elevated platform her father had fixed and removed the dress, hastily and without care. She tossed it to the floor which caused Mr. Zabini to go "ab-ah!" as he fell forward to catch it but it was to no avail. The dress crumpled to the ground, forcing the man to sigh heavily as he began rubbing his forehead with his left hand.

More cleaning charms, he realized, spotting a bit of dirt. Definitely more cleaning charms.

He finally shot a look at the remaining daughter.

"You're older? _How?_"

* * *

**Closing Word: **Thank you and an _fyi_: Voldemort hasn't returned yet (if you couldn't tell). I don't think the story would be very much the same if Harry was sorted in to Slytherin though I do believe the prophecy calls for the inevitable return of our favorite villain. You shall see. 


	2. Part I, Chapter II

**Summary: **AU. Slytherin Raised!HP. At age 23, the charming Mister Potter figures to be the youngest Minister in history. Read as he deals with political intrigue, an arranged marriage and rumors of a dark resurgence.  
**Word to the Readers: **This was originally a single, 12,000 word chapter but I've split it up for fear of it being too long. So it ends where I think it should and Chapter III will come out much sooner. I've struggled with this, as it's always easier to see the end-game of a story rather than all the little events that lead up to it (at least for me). I don't know if it's good (I suppose that's what criticism is for) but it's probably still a bit slow. Most of the chapter is from Harry's POV though there are others involved. I apologize for the slowness but I can't jump into an AU world that easily without explaining things.

**II**

The lights of Hogsmeade were all but extinguished as midnight drew closer. The _Three Broomsticks_ and other shops lined along the main road remained lit but Mulciber was not concerned with that. Where he was heading remained shrouded almost entirely in darkness. Only the pale moon's full visage gave light to the surrounding area and that suited Mulciber just fine.

He was a rather tall fellow, almost six feet, six inches, which was strange for an English wizard. Then again, Mulciber was not usual in the slightest. As the man rounded the bend into a cul-de-sac, the cascading light of the moon hit him just perfectly, making him visible. He wore a dark-grey suit with a stiff, white collar that made seeing him in low-light difficult, a blue-bow tie, rimless eyeglasses on a thin silver cord and there was a large frilly, blue, silk handkerchief that was ready to fall out, stuffed haphazardly in his left breast pocket.

His eyes were cold and his face was anything but pleasant; a somewhat cruel mouth chewed aggressively at something and large, flared nostrils breathed in the crisp air of the July night. Despite the aura of coldness he exuded, he had many desirable traits. He was a fiercely loyal man, if a bit naïve, and his prowess with mind magic was perhaps only surpassed by Albus Dumbledore or Harry Potter.

To those looking for prestige, he belonged to an Old Family, which his father had made certain he would never forget. Thus was instilled the usual rhetoric that came with being a Pureblood. The honors, the code of conduct – all the traditions.

Mulciber believed every word of it.

He was unlike most traditionalists in that regard, he thought viciously as he swished his wand and slammed it rather aggressively over the top of himself. He disappeared from view almost instantaneously. The gravel crunched beneath his now obscured person as he crept towards the middle house in the cul-de-sac. A noise nearby made him hesitate; there was no fear in him however. He stood perfectly still, his very next exhale held at the throat.

He checked… only some rubbish.

He breathed, gulping in air and he continued forward, as quietly as possible. He reached the side of the house a moment later and he double-checked the entrance to the backyard, making certain there was nothing that would alert anyone to his presence. He doubted the family of the clandestine home could afford such protections but Mulciber's chief mannerism was thoroughness. Seeing that all was well, he cast a charm that deafened the noise he would make opening the gate and slipped quietly in.

To most traditionalists, his staunch practice in making certain everything he did followed the edicts was to be commended. Mulciber had little inkling that most of those same traditionalists mocked him in private. The very same people that delivered the rhetoric believed little of it. It was but a façade for most, while less than savory practices took place behind the scenes. Hypocrisy at its finest but Mulciber did not know it.

He saw only rule-breakers and heretics and assumed they would receive their punishment in due time.

It was almost a religion to him.

To others who believed tradition equated directly to blood supremacy, they saw in Mulciber a sexless, tight-fisted, weather-beaten, damnably cold-eyed, old ex-Death Eater. An anachronistic simpleton and a nuisance to civilization that belonged in Azkaban.

He did not see it that way, of course.

He peered into the window and saw his target sleeping peacefully.

He thought his actions made civilization better. Stronger. _More dignified_.

He closed his eyes and his large nostrils flared as he breathed deeply. He chanted a little mantra to himself. _With Dignity_.

What he was about to do was _hardly dignified_ by any reasonable person's standards but his mind could not conceive such a notion.

It would never believe that. No. What he was going to do would make the Wizarding World a better place.

Through _his_ actions, he thought, as his cold eyes opened and hardened, the Wizarding World would be a better place. He turned and stared at the inhabitant inside.

The sides of his rather cruel mouth turned slightly upward as he lifted his wand to eye level.

With religious abandon, he went to work.

---

The Wizarding district of Edinburgh was a town in and of itself. Hidden from Muggle sight, it was situated in the North Constituency and lay between the Midlothian village of Rosslyn and the Edinburgh suburb of Balerno. The witches and wizards of The District (as it was more fondly called) were a dignified bunch who believed very importantly in magical rights and the traditions that came along with them. It came as no surprise then that few Muggleborns moved there, opting instead to live in Hogsmeade or Wizarding Liverpool or even London. This meant that The District favored the SMRP heavily and in fact had voted for them in every general election dating back to 1703.

The District was also well planned in its construct and had many stone-paved roads that quartered off commercial and industrial from residential. Of all the roads however, there was a single main one that ran from the Northern Portal into Edinburgh, all the way south to district's end. It was this road that the most prestigious of buildings lined; it was this road that every witch or wizard dreamed of being apart of. It was this road that ended with The Braemar.

The Braemar Estate was the largest piece of land owned by any one individual in The District – five hundred acres, isolated from the hustle and bustle. To most wizards and witches, it was a landmark, a place of majesty and beauty. It harkened back to the Golden Age of Scottish Wizardry, a time of elegance and of genteel people and an era in which few wars took place. To others, it was an ostentatious display of wealth and power that could be put to better use.

Regardless, all parties agreed on one thing: to own Braemar was stature.

Beyond the gatehouse, guarded around the clock by hooded sentinels, lay rolling foothills that stretched in every direction, trees that croaked with ancientness and the greenest grass in all of Scotland, spelled to never fade. Here and there were what appeared unused watchtowers, but those who understood Braemar knew it to be a clever deception. Nightly, one could walk out onto the grounds, put an ear to the wind and listen to the shrill cries of persons long gone, who never gave up the beat, sworn even in death to keep a vigilant watch. In the northwest, a dovecot turned Owlery bustled with the comings and goings of mail-carriers around the clock, all managed by the forty house-elves tasked with caring for Braemar.

It all palled in comparison to the centerpiece however – the estate house, a grand building of stone, mortar and magic that adorned many a magical postcard in the north. The mammoth structure was almost a castle in some regards. It was a single, precision-cut stone path that led up to the building, cutting a swath through the trees that encircled it. So many trees, both tall and ancient, but the building rose above the evergreens and oaks, reigning supreme over them. Vines of all types and magical mosses grew up and down the entrance, and above on the archway, inlaid was a simple coat of arms, depicting two griffins, upright, clutching a single stave.

Beyond that was the building itself, a worn gray, with a watchtower built into it in the far south and a raised tower in the north that bore the Flag of Magical Britain at its zenith. Seven spires claimed residence over the building and a single wooden door, directly in the center, led inward.

It was here in Braemar, early the next morning that the owner – one Harry Potter – slept uneasily.

After a night of socializing with close friends, the now twenty-three year old had gone to bed in the north tower with a headache. Sleep came easily enough and for much of the night he slept peacefully.

That changed quickly, however, and the young man was soon plagued with nightmares.

He had moved uneasily in his bed for some time, tossing and turning all over the place, a habit he would not be fond of. It was as the nightmare got progressively worse that a man in a dark cloak visited him in the hellscape that had once been a pleasant dream of a landslide election. Barely visible, the man held a candle close to his chest.

Deeply voiced chants came next, rocking the landscape in his mind. Inhumane in nature, their words unintelligible, they struck discord and brought malice.

Red flames shot up from the ground and licked at a cauldron that belched forth an acrid smell that Harry could almost taste. Frantic visions flickered; an ember of light – hope – faded and was extinguished. Vague wonderings took him; green lights struck pillars of stone long forgotten.

And a scream.

A terrible, haunting, foreboding scream reverberated within the confines of his mind, warning him, warning him of….

A loud knock came and Harry inhaled quickly, the nightmare fleeing him as uncertainty of his surroundings took him as he stirred. It lingered only for a second as part of him realized he was in Edinburgh, due in London in a few short hours.

Another part, his curious nature, desperately tried to hold on to the dream with little success.

He yawned while squinting in the dark.

"Sir," squeaked a voice and Harry only 'mmm'd; he rubbed his slightly sore forehead as the sound of curtains being drawn echoed through the large room. He opened and closed his eyes rapidly once more, adjusting to the early morning light. Curious, he thought, as he rubbed his hand over a very peculiar, lightning-bolt shaped scar that sat above his right eyebrow. Shrugging it off, he found his glasses quickly and put them on, all the while he adjusted himself so that he was propped up against the headboard.

He glanced around the now well-lit room. White walls, golden curtains and paintings of antiquity – all home to him.

His eyes strayed to a clock and they lingered.

It was rather early to be woken up.

He turned his attention the creature that stood before the main window, a rather normal looking house-elf whose only distinguishing feature was the nice coat he wore with the Shield of Braemar stitched in the front. Harry thought of all he had to do that day and nothing registered requiring such an early awakening.

Curious.

"Have you news or anything of interest?" he finally spoke, his voice distinctly proper, his English impeccable.

The house-elf bowed and said, "Yes, Master." The thing moved its left hand and Harry did indeed see something of interest – a piece of paper. Harry nodded and the creature moved forward, placing the item on the nightstand near his bed before returning to his spot in front of the window. Harry thanked the creature while retrieving the paper. He brought it before him, adjusting his glasses before reading.

It was a note from one of the campaign advisors and it was _very_ vague.

"Sources have revealed an incident has occurred that will matter greatly in the coming hours and days," he read aloud, musing over the meaning of such a sentence. Usually when one didn't reveal much, it meant it was essential that the opposition party either not know that they knew or that it was something from within the party that couldn't be made public. Thus, the ambiguity of such a letter was required in case owls were intercepted. It caused worry however, as the former situation tended to be positive for their efforts and the latter… well, the latter tended to cost elections.

He continued, "A meeting has been called. 5:30 A.M. Tentatively at the Braemar pending Party Leader approval. All staff members are to report," and Harry scoffed before looking at the house-elf for a moment and remarking, "Always at my home, of course. Why do we even have a headquarters in Liverpool?" He finished reading the letter and ran a hand through his hair before looking back at the house-elf.

"Was there anything else?"

"Master Cedric has sent word, he has," said the creature, his manner of speaking distinctly odd as was custom among house-elves, "Said he would arrive at five, he has, Master – said I should tell you he knows what's going on, he does."

"Yes, well that's good. Nothing else?" the creature shook his head in the negative, "Good. Very well; dictate this then…" and the house-elf snapped his fingers, summoning a quill and parchment. The creature looked intently at Harry, who thought only of what he would say for a second. "The meeting shall be held as scheduled and at the Braemar Estate. Party Leader has approved. Breakfast will be served afterwards; accommodations shall be provided if necessary. Stop." The house-elf scribbled 'necessary' and then looked up at Harry again.

"Have one of the house-elves send that out to all the staff members; return after you are done."

A loud crack and the house-elf disappeared.

Harry put the note on the nightstand and folded his hands, waiting. It wasn't long before the house-elf returned and bowed once more; Harry looked directly at the creature with a commanding glance. "Have the house prepared and have the kitchen cook up additional food – enough for the entire staff," and he stopped for a moment, rubbing his head, "Better make a bit more than that, actually – Lord Appleby is rather fond of his breakfast and I very much doubt anyone wants to hear _that man_ complain so early in the morning."

"And make certain the conference room hasn't moved to the third floor again," he added and with that, he dismissed the creature with a wave of his hand.

Harry stayed in bed for a moment, staring out the main window and onto the barely lit grounds as he pondered. He didn't like what his instincts were telling him about the incident; he didn't think anything negative had happened to affect the party but at the same time, he believed something grave had occurred. Why else would Cedric be showing up before the meeting? It was an unsettling feeling, he realized and at the same time, a part of him thought it silly. One doesn't feel these things, his rational mind told him, chalking the tension up to a rough night of sleep.

Concluding that all would be told at the meeting, he swung his feet over the bed and got up.

---

Minister Cornelius Fudge could, at best, be compared to a snake oil salesman. He carried himself like a well-meaning, genial fool whose incompetence could only be eclipsed by his poor taste in clothing. But deep down, underneath the façade designed to garner sympathy, was a true-bred politician capable of swinging both votes and funding in his party's direction. As he arrived in the older and more rundown parts of Hogsmeade, his dark eyes scoured every detail, every person and every inch before him, forecasting his reputation for being well-informed of everything that happened in his country.

The Head of Magical Law Enforcement followed shortly behind the Minister and as both rounded the bend and into the most decrepit part of Hogsmeade, they passed between seven Aurors clothed from head to toe in battle garb. The message was clear: nobody enters _or__leaves_ without the Minister's permission.

"What did the parents have to say?" groused the Minister, his voice rather annoyed.

"Not much, Sir," came the thick reply of the Head, a Scot. "They're distraught of course, very distraught but they know nothing."

"How can they not know anything? Didn't they teach her a damn thing?" he blustered, fumbling for words as the seriousness of the situation took him, "How does a little girl end up this far away from her home, _at midnight_, mind you, on the night of a _full moon_," and he grabbed the Scotsman and shook him, "The parents _have_ to be to blame, do you understand that? Their carelessness… _their ineptitude _as parents _will not_ cost me votes," he practically seethed.

"There are other alternatives, Sir," the man replied, finally loose of the man's steel grip. "But they haven't checked out yet. Some in the Auror Division suspect foul play. There's no evidence as of yet, however…" and he paused as the Minister closed his eyes and scraped his fingers back and forth over his forehead. "We can't blame the parents, Sir. They've checked out as alright folk. What we need to be more concerned about is why _one of them_ was out here last night. The wards for Hogsmeade used to extend even here… it isn't good that they've been forced to recede."

"They'll blame me of course," the Minister sighed, ignoring the Head of Department's concerns, "They'll blame me for the attack… and-and they'll spin the whole damn thing so I look like a bloody fool," he practically cried. His emotion fluctuated again and his thoughts turned to the Opposition Party Leader. That _insufferable_… that… that _perfectly charming_ snake in the grass.

He could see Mr. Potter standing before a large crowd decrying him as a threat to the security of the children…. Oh how he'd love to….

He thought back to the attack. Why they even gave rights to those… those _things_. Those _menaces_.

Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore gave them rights.

When all went wrong, _blame Dumbledore_. He seemed to pickup a little. Yes. It was Dumbledore's fault, never mind the fact it was Cornelius who made the decision to listen to the old man. That didn't matter. It was Dumbledore's fault.

---

Back at the Braemar, Harry walked to the bathroom, a house-elf popping in and fixing the bed in his wake. He took a cold, ten minute shower and then toweled off before grabbing a bathrobe. Standing in front of the vanity, he looked into the mirror above it. Green eyes stared back at him as he began shaving. The mirror remarked every so often that his eyes were very lovely indeed, was custom. Harry wasn't in the mood however and gave the contraption a stern glance, quieting it instantly.

He brushed his teeth, attempted to calm his hair (with little success) and opted to continue wearing his glasses as a third house-elf cracked in behind him.

Harry looked into the mirror, making eye contact with creature and smiled before telling him that he'd prefer something light today. "No under robe, thank you. Make the over robe a navy blue and make sure nothing is floating across it this time. Not very fond of the Dumbledore-look really – and last time they were hidden until it was too late. Took Narcissa by surprise, I'm afraid." The house-elf tried to apologize but Harry just gave the thing a glance before continuing, "Same colored slacks and tie, white shirt, beige vest."

The house-elf popped off and returned a moment with the clothes and two small boxes in hand. The thing placed the boxes on the vanity and handed the clothes to Harry before disappearing. Harry dressed and soon opened one of the boxes. He took the silver pin that was inside and placed it on the right side of his collar as was required. The Pin of a Lord Chancellor of History. The other contained a medal, the Order of Merlin, which he wore on a necklace under his shirt.

Determined everything was perfect, he nodded before exiting his room.

He walked down the corridor and to the grand staircase that led down into the lobby. He stood atop the flight, taking in the view momentarily. A grand chandelier hung above the lobby, turning of its own volition. It floated without the aid of a cable and was comprised of a thousand shards that gave off light. Below it was a room with years upon years of history soaked into every inch of it.

Along the walls, house-elves crept, opening curtains and bustling back and forth with food, drinks and the like. A naïve witch or wizard might wonder why house-elves were being seen in the company of purebloods but that was due to their ignorance of the several schools of thought concerning house-elves. Some preferred one of the more popular methods of dealing with house-elves – the D'Heilt System. In it, house-elves were to never be seen around company, were given poor attire and several days off per month.

Harry on the other hand, preferred the Vespertinian Method. Under such a system, the creatures were permitted to be seen around guests, so long as they stayed close to the walls, except when commanded a task that required moving. They additionally received fancy clothes and on the down side, if one actually cared for the creatures, were given no days off.

It was all in how you worked the creature. House-elves loved praise and clothing, so long as the latter was never directly handed to them, otherwise that would set them free – something few, if any, wanted.

Give a creature poor clothes and little chance to receive attention for their work and they needed days off – they worked harder however, as they attempted to fulfill their wants by doing more. Do the opposite, the house-elves worked well enough and because they were constantly receiving attention and had excellent clothing, they never needed downtime and could work for years at a time without a single day off.

Either one would work well for a house the size of Braemar but Harry chose the latter as it wasn't often he entertained guests; it was his home to get away from people and enjoy peace.

"Harry," shouted a voice, snapping him from his thoughts and he sighed, reevaluating such a notion. Most of the time, then, he conceded. With the urgency and the necessity to hold the meeting as quickly as possible, all bets were off for peace. It didn't really matter where he'd taken residence – it was a possible chance for his political team to capitalize and that was all that mattered to them.

"Cedric," Harry greeted, spotting the man with soot trailing behind him. He descended down the stairs and joining up with the slightly older man, he remarked, "I see that you're sober; how'd you manage?"

Cedric smiled. "Well, it was _your_ birthday party, need I remind you. Half-reckoned you'd serve butterbeer. Where'd you head off to anyway… and I don't buy that 'I've taken ill' line either. You were off, practicing in front of a mirror, am I right?"

Harry was amused. "You've mistaken me with _Lordling_ Draco, again, I am afraid," he responded and they both shared a laugh. "No, I did have a headache… turned in early." He struggled for a moment with whether he should tell Cedric about the rather peculiar nightmare… but upon second thought, he regarded that such an action would be foolish.

They both began to walk towards the conference room. Sounds of clicking shoes along the tiles, the popping and coming of the house-elves and mutterings all added to create a rather unique atmosphere not often seen at the Braemar. The house-elves worked hard to remedy the situation as they commanded stairs that usually moved at this hour in the morning to stand still and zapped portraits who were trying to cause mischief. The conference room was found and returned to its ground level position; apparently it had swapped with the greenhouse, much to the chagrin of some of the more vocal plants.

"So is the meeting still on for 5:30?" Cedric asked, to which Harry nodded.

"Yes, I confirmed only a little while ago. I imagine we'll start late if the house-elves have trouble with the owls this early in the morning. Speaking of which, you sent notice that you knew what was going on?" and Harry gave the man a pointed looking.

"Indeed," Cedric said, sighing, distressing Harry slightly, though he did not show it. "I'll have you know I was in bed enjoying –"

Harry's eyes widened, miffed. "I _don't_ need to know," he interrupted, giving him a shrewd glance as they arrived at the conference room. "Trust me when I say that."

"Trust me when I say this," Cedric countered, with a Cheshire cat's grin, "The very telling of such a story… why it would leave you breathless and in awe."

"Yes, why of course," Harry conceded, surprising Cedric. Harry stopped short of opening the door and looked the man over. The playful banter told him all he needed to know about the situation – it was the former, not the later; there was no danger to the SMRP. All was well.

And he smiled.

Cedric was perhaps his only friend, in retrospect. Few others had the patience to deal with someone as difficult as Harry on any level other than worship; even fewer had the intellect. Harry rather valued such a companionship and so he played along, opening the door for him before adding, "I am rather fond of fiction, after all."

A laugh was shared as they crossed the threshold into the wide, opulent room that held a single, long table and many chairs. The house-elves in the room bowed and greeted Harry with mostly 'Sir'.

They sat quickly, Cedric informing him that it'd be all over the Wireless by now. Harry ordered a house-elf to bring a set and soon they listened in….

---

"It's all over the Wireless now," Mulciber stated plainly, watching as Fenrir Greyback attempted to charm the various blood splatters that took residence in his mangy coat off.

"Of course, of course," Fenrir rasped and he noticed Mulciber's stare. The werewolf grinned wickedly, "It's always the blood of children that's hardest to get off. _So delicious_," he sang to himself.

"Right," Mulciber conceded, not interested in the least.

A fluttering of wings caught both their attention and the werewolf growled uneasily as his eyes darted to the intruder. A tawny owl flew through the open window near their position. It headed towards Mulciber and the man made short work of the letter. His nostrils flared and he gave a grim smile.

All was well.

He turned to the werewolf. "Mr. Potter has convened a meeting at the Braemar, it seems. All has gone according to plan," and he pointed his wand at the creature.

The werewolf's eyes glittered, confused.

"Your service has been most helpful, werewolf," and with two very simple words and more malice than one man should be capable of, the beast fell to the floor in a heap. Mulciber cast another hex that incinerated the body and moved to apparate. He didn't want to be late after all, and the job was done.

That was all that mattered to Mulciber.

* * *

**Closing Word: **Thank you. You'll find out more about this Slytherin!Harry in the next chapter. Oh and if it isn't entirely obvious, I don't have a beta. Sorry. Am I too descriptive?  
Information:  
SMRP, stands for _Sorcerers' Magical Reform Party  
_North Constituency, one of the four constituencies I've made up for the purpose of this story. 


End file.
